


Exhibition

by Deepdarkwaters



Series: Bespoke [5]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Exhibitionism, Fluff, M/M, Old Married Couple, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 18:19:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15394653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: A long time age, decades ago now, they discovered more or less at the same time how much Merlin liked seeing Harry, usually presented so flawlessly, get just a little bit messed up. A curl of hair falling away from the carefully styled mass of the rest of it, or a rogue mushy pea clinging implausibly to the rim of his glasses after a fish supper, or his usually pristine tailored suit wrinkled from enthusiastic manhandling and wet with someone else's come. It took them a while longer to discover that the opposite was true as well: that Merlin with two days' worth of stubble and wearing a ratty old shirt on a day off instead of his usual neat jumpers made Harry's mouth go dry.





	Exhibition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reindeerjumper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/gifts).



> reindeerjumper said [this photo](https://78.media.tumblr.com/3964a140f87780bea53e7988af3978cf/tumblr_pc6t10zaGU1s8jzpyo1_1280.jpg) needed some Merlahad porn, and this happened! x

Merlin's probably the only person in the world, Harry joked once, who actually enjoys the faint ring of mild tinnitus. Enjoy isn't exactly the right word, but it's sort of true nonetheless: it means _quiet_ , and quiet is so rare when you choose a life like this. No computers blaring out the gunshots and tyre screeches of missions in progress, no lurid office gossip, nobody lurking in the doorway coughing pointedly because they're still waiting for him to sign off some paperwork. Nothing. Just the distant trill of birds welcoming the sunset somewhere beyond the thick old manor windows in the house where he grew up, the musical chime of ice cubes colliding in his whisky, and that ceaseless quiet tone thrumming in his ears.

Then, some time later, the crunch of tyres on the overgrown driveway.

By the time Merlin hears the heavy front door creak open and bang closed, he's tuned out the ringing without even realising it for the simple pleasure of listening to Harry's approach instead: the familiar cadence of his footsteps crossing the bare floorboards and worn carpet of the hallway, the soft _shhh_ of the parlour door opening against the pile of the rug, and then the barely-there sound of Harry breathing. Merlin doesn't turn yet, content to simply picture him in his mind a moment longer: Harry's lingering, one hand perhaps still touching the door, looking at Merlin across the room as fondly as Merlin's listening to him come home.

"Aren't you going to tell me I'm late?" he says eventually, and Merlin suppresses a helpless grin against the wet rim of his whisky glass, counting the seven soft footfalls as Harry crosses the room to where he's sitting.

"You know you're late. Why would I waste my breath?"

He tilts his head back against the top of his faded old armchair and gets his first look at Harry: upside-down, smiling in a way that's more in his eyes than on his mouth, and already loosening his tie and top button. He bends as though he's making a bow and touches his lips softly to Merlin's forehead, one hand sliding over his shoulder and across his chest from behind in something that's almost a hug and slipping between the unbuttoned top of his comfy old linen shirt to rest there, a warm weight pressing comfortingly against Merlin's bare collarbone.

"In my defence, the mission didn't go quite as smoothly as I hoped. I couldn't face driving all the way up here, but I hired the most absurd mid-life-crisis scarlet Porsche when I landed in Edinburgh. The roof comes down and everything. I thought I might tempt you with some public indecency up a mountain somewhere."

Merlin works Harry's cufflink loose and pushes his jacket and shirt sleeve up just far enough to bare a piece of wrist skin for him to kiss. "You've been blaming your indulgences on your mid-life crisis since you were thirty," he points out, and Harry responds, "Well, I might die any day, how can I possibly know where the middle of my life is?" like that's a sensible justification for all of his decadent nonsense.

He comes where Merlin tells him with a tug on his bared wrist, around the side of the armchair to kneel there in front of his feet on the cushion Merlin put down ready for him an hour ago. The low pulse of Harry's heart beating gently against Merlin's chest through his pendant is a fraction faster now, a counterpoint to the soft smile still warming his eyes and the glint of firelight on his flushed lower lip when he licks it.

"Will you shrivel up like a woodlouse if I tell you how handsome you look tonight?" Harry asks, and Merlin tries not to pull a face.

"Probably."

Harry makes a humming sound like he didn't expect anything else. "Well, you do, but I shan't bring it up again if you're not in the mood for compliments."

A long time ago, decades ago now, they discovered more or less at the same time how much Merlin liked seeing Harry, usually presented so flawlessly, get just a little bit messed up. A curl of hair falling away from the carefully styled mass of the rest of it, or a rogue mushy pea clinging implausibly to the rim of his glasses after a fish supper, or his usually pristine tailored suit wrinkled from enthusiastic manhandling and wet with someone else's come. It took them a while longer to discover that the opposite was true as well: that Merlin with two days' worth of stubble and wearing a ratty old shirt on a day off instead of his usual neat jumpers made Harry's mouth go dry.

"When's the last time you went more than a day without shaving?" Harry asks. He reaches up to touch Merlin's face, fingertips scuffing lightly across his scratchy chin and cheek.

"I don't know. A long time. When did I last get a week's holiday?"

"Years. It was black then. It's grey now." His other hand joins the first, cupping Merlin's jaw and drawing him down for a kiss, a proper one this time lasting a good half a minute and involving a considerable amount of tongue before he finally pulls back, one last gentle little sucking kiss tingling Merlin's lower lip. "You look tired."

"I'm always tired."

"My darling," Harry murmurs, inflecting it like he's really saying _I know you are_. "You hide it well. I suppose we all do. What's worrying you?"

"Nothing." It's not a lie; he never would have taken a holiday at all if he didn't trust his team to run the place without incident until he got back, and to call him at once if anything unexpected pops up. London is only an hour's flight away from here, reassuringly close to HQ both for him and for everybody else who relies on him. "I suppose I'm just not used to relaxing. I feel like I have to learn how to do it all over again every time."

"How can I help?"

From anybody else, and to anybody else, it might sound like a cheeky come-on line, but they know each other far too well for that. Harry's studying his face as though there are words printed there, his gaze flicking ceaselessly from Merlin's left eye to his right and back again like he can't decide which is going to be the most telling so doesn't dare to look away from either.

"I want to see you."

Harry, smiling softly again, sits back on his heels and puts a kiss in Merlin's palm, closing his fingers over it like a Darling thimble. "I'm here. You get six days of me."

A thrill dances up the length of Merlin's spine at that. He knew, of course he knew, but hearing it voiced turns it from something abstract into something with parameters, something he can examine and measure and take apart and put back together again. Suddenly he doesn't feel quite so tired, worn thin like the hall carpet, but rejuvenated as though merely having Harry close to him is enough to urge his heart out of its sluggish trudge and back to the full-throttle beat of their youth.

"Take off your clothes for me."

Harry's grin broadens, just for a moment, and he quietly says, "Yes, Merlin," as he's gracefully unfurling himself back to his feet. He's wearing his charcoal chalk stripe suit, Merlin's favourite, and for a minute he simply stands there in the lamplight letting Merlin look at him, turning slowly for him when he gestures a request and then slipping his jacket off his shoulders. He drapes it over the back of the old Chesterfield, and again lets Merlin look at him one layer closer to naked: the cling and skim of the impeccably tailored trousers on his hips and legs and bottom, the luminous glow of his white shirt, the narrowness of his waist and the minute wrinkles where his shirt is tucked into his waistband. His remaining cufflink is next - silver, elegant, a treasured Valentine's Day gift from Ira fifteen years ago - and he sets it on the mantelpiece before starting to unknot his tie. This, too, is familiar, a Christmas or birthday present from Victoria sometime in the late eighties.

"Do you remember when she tied your wrists with that?" Merlin asks.

Harry's winding the silk around his hand, letting it slither languidly between his fingers. "Which time?"

"The time she took Polaroids and posted them to me at work and I had to go into a budget meeting with a hard on the size of Nelson's Column."

Harry's laughing softly now, giddy with the memory. "Awful woman. I'm sure I don't know what I see in her."

"Your tongue, mostly, from the stories you tell."

"You know, if you wanted to return the favour"--Harry begins to wind the tie around his wrists and poses alluringly in front of the huge gilt-framed mirror by the window in that way he's got of doing something as a joke but still managing to be breathtaking without even trying--"I'm sure she wouldn't object."

"Maybe I'll gag you with it and throw you in the back of your stupid car and send her that photo instead."

"Good fucking lord." There's not much that genuinely startles Harry any more, but every now and then something still hits and makes his eyes sparkle with greedy, unfettered lust.

"Take off your shirt for me," Merlin tells him, and Harry unwinds the tie quickly and does as instructed, slipping the buttons through and pulling the tails from his waistband. It joins his jacket on the back of the couch, and again he stands still for a while letting Merlin study him as closely and reverently as an art student seeing a Michelangelo in person for the first time. There are new bruises across his ribs, furious mottled red and black patches that look like the impact of fists more than bullets, although there are some bullet bruises too. "Turn," Merlin requests, and Harry spreads his arms slightly and begins to turn in a slow circle, glancing back over his shoulder as if he's craving Merlin's reaction to the bruises there as well.

"Nothing's broken," he says, probably because he knows Merlin feels slightly less guilty about enjoying the sight of him marked like this when the injuries are only superficial. "Can't say the same for the other fellow."

"Good." Merlin finishes his last swallow of whiskey and pours himself another from the decanter, and one for Harry too in the glass he fetched from the bar before he arrived, although he doesn't get up to hand it to him yet. "Shoes and socks, please, and trousers. Underwear, too."

Of course Harry does this part facing away from Merlin, still at fifty-one shamelessly proud of his arse - with very good reason - and letting it peek out enticingly above the lowered waistbands of his trousers and boxers for a moment before dropping the fabric all the way down to his ankles and trying to step out without falling over. Even Harry can't quite make this part look graceful, nor the way he's left wearing nothing but his socks and garters then, although Merlin's too busy tracing his eyes down the scatter of fresh bruises on the back of Harry's thighs to be aware of much else.

"Turn," he says again when Harry's naked, and Harry slowly turns, scarred and bruised and gorgeousin the amber lamplight, half-hard because the feel of eyes on him has always, always been as intoxicating as the feel of fingers. "God, Harry, you're beautiful."

His dimples show this time when he smiles, as irrepressibly delighted by sweet words and praise as he was half a lifetime ago when they were still learning who they were, and who they could be together. "You're not wearing your glasses. You don't want to record?"

"I don't need to. I'll remember this." Merlin picks up Harry's drink at last and holds it out to him, eyes tracing every inch of his flawed, perfect skin when he comes closer to take it. "Sit over there for me," he says, nodding at the couch across the room where Harry folded his clothes.

Harry sits, utterly brazen about draping himself against the arm and stretching his endless long legs out across the cushions, feet dangling off the front in a way that is probably uncomfortable. He still somehow manages to make it look like he's posing for a scandalous painting and he bloody knows it too, sipping his whisky and eyeing Merlin hungrily over the top of his glass, his other hand coming to rest on his stomach just close enough to his cock that he could touch it with barely a movement. He won't, though. Not until he's told to.

"Well?" he asks softly, a bit breathlessly. "What now?"

"I told you," Merlin says. "I just want to see you."

Harry makes a displeased little spoiled noise at that, but he doesn't mean it, he never does. Merlin can feel the heartbeat pendant pounding in time with his own under his shirt. He gets it out to press against his mouth instead, and he watches and he feels and he waits and it takes almost two hours for Harry to come, trembling and gasping and sweating on the couch, untouched by anything but Merlin's ravenous eyes.


End file.
